Page 82 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

They groan and watch her, waiting for her to drink it. Somebody calls it disgusting.

I take it from her hands. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it, guys. These things are great.”

Her eyes widen as I take a swig. God, it’s terrible. Sickly sweet.

“Hey!” she says.

“What?” I say, drinking more of it, feeling her amazed gaze. Amazed I’m taking this bullet.

God, what kind of man does she think I am? The kind of man to let a woman pay for my mistake? That’s not me.

I’m all-out chugging it now, faster and faster, sucking it down, trying to let it bypass my taste buds, though that is definitely not working. If I survive the sugar coma I get from this, I might go over and strangle that bartender. Finally the glass is empty. People are laughing, groaning.

I’m just trying not to vomit all over the beautifully polished cedar planking. “Let’s get you another,” I say, heading off toward the bar.

She catches up. “I could’ve drunk it.”

“The only one who falls on my sword is me,” I say.

She gives me a suspicious look.

The bartender is nowhere to be seen, but Gail’s up front, starting her talk.

We move back a bit, as other people crowd forward. It’s some kind of childhood disease prevention charity. I already had my guy in New York wire over a donation, but I like to look like I actually care.

Gail drones on.

The pink-drink thing was a disaster, but it was the right idea. There are other things Tabitha is into that I can show an interest in. I run back through the list again. Hair. Sparkle shit. Hello Kitty. Then I hit it.

I lean in. “Question,” I whisper.

“What now?” she sighs.

What now?I don’t know why the re-appearance of her sassy attitude should please me. I tamp down my reaction and lean in. “What would Stefano DiMera do?” I whisper under my breath. “About Marvin?”

“Oh, please.”

“What? I’m really asking. Given this circumstance, him scheming like you think, would he say‘screw it all’and tell Gail? Or would he investigate the enemy? Figure out the play and hit back?”

“I won’t be patronized by you,” she says. “I hate when people patronize me.”

I grab a glass of champagne for each of us from a passing tray. The speakers are changing. Now it’s one of the daughters. I’m grateful we’re in the back.

“I’m allowed alcoholic drinks, now?” she asks. “Or are you going two-fisted?”

“For you. It’s probably excellent,” I say.

“I do like a nice glass of bubbly.”

“Take it.”

Our fingers brush as she takes it, a small sizzle that burns. She averts her gaze from mine, watches the daughter talk as she sips. Did she feel it, too? The forbidden heat of our connection?

It drives me crazy that I can’t read her right now. It drives me crazy that she isn’t wearing any of her secret little Tabitha things. She’s everything that drives me crazy, and everything that I ragingly, infuriatingly, frustratingly want.

“You think you can get me drunk and find out what Stefano DiMera would do?”

“Can I?” I ask, settling two fingers on the small of her back. “Would it work? Would you tell?”

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